


I'm going wherever you're going

by GraduallyBecomesADisaster



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Both running away, First Person Point of View, Fluff and Smut, Italy, M/M, Meeting on Holiday, Mild Smut, No Werewolves, Peter writing to Stiles, Rome - Freeform, Steter Secret Santa, Steter Secret Santa 2018, Stiles speaks Italian, Tourist Peter, alternative universe, travelling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-26 16:04:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17144822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraduallyBecomesADisaster/pseuds/GraduallyBecomesADisaster
Summary: Stiles,I know you may never read this but our story deserved to be written down and you deserve to know how I felt during our summer. It began in Rome and there is where it should end.It is easy to look back on the summer and think about what could’ve been done. To re-write what we did in my head, but that’s not fair. To you or me. We made our choice in that summer, when the fruits were sweet and heat was unbearable.Forever, Peter





	I'm going wherever you're going

**Author's Note:**

  * For [secretlyjohnwaston](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=secretlyjohnwaston).



> Happy Steter Secret Santa for @secretlyjonhwatson on tumblr. I hope you like my fic where I've thrown Peter and Stiles into my favourite city. I decided to write this from Peter's point of view because i think we should hear from him a bit more, even though Stiles talks a lot more.

It is easy to look back on the summer and think about what could’ve been done. To re-write what we did in my head, but that’s not fair. To you or me. We made our choice in that summer, when the fruits were sweet, and the heat was unbearable.  
I often wonder when it started, with Rome? Or maybe even earlier, on the train?  
Certainly, Rome’s hidden corners and beautiful views helped. It was nearly impossible not to fall in love there, whether it be with the city itself or someone within its walls. For me it was both. There is something almost devious about such an old city, as if it is watching everyone walking on its cobbled streets. I shut my eyes and I’m back in Italy, so many years ago. Watching you lead me so confidently into loving you.  
But no, it was our first conversations that had me.  
The train only made the heat more intense. But as was the way in Italy, none of the windows would open and there was no money to spare on air conditioning or to fix those they had installed. We had to sit there with sweat pooling on our backs. When I write this can almost smell it in the air, each body only adding to the odour that coated our carriage.  
I saw you straight away of course, you’re hard to miss. All long limbs and ungraceful strides. You looked both confused and completely certain, like you’d stepped into the wrong country by mistake and liked what you saw anyway.  
You waved back to someone on the platform, a quick wave of your hand and a “Later!”  
My first thought was American (and you laugh at this later, with only a sheet wrapped over those long limbs.)  
A single backpack makes me think student (another laugh as our legs tangle together)  
And as you flop to the seat across from me, eyes red and hair messy, I think escaping (that gained me silence).  
It might have started right there: the loose shirt, the frayed jeans, the light eyes and light skin.  
At this point in the day, the sun was at it’s hottest beating down on the last train to St Peters before lunch. Short tempers were boiling and throughout the train angry voices could be heard, as the locals fought about one thing or another. My Italian was also mediocre at best, so very few curse words were able to drift to me, “son of-” and “your mother-” was chief among them.  
But despite the heat, the circles under your eyes and the Italian women screaming near your ear (I pitied her husband) you were smiling. And I was struck. It was a smile Italian poets with too much wine wrote about, with a likeness to stars or fire or lights. I was never a poet, but I could imagine even the most sexually deviant men bringing out their quills for your smile.  
Good God, in some ways I hope you never read this, even though it was written for you.  
At the time I felt no need to talk, you were attractive but easily dismissed as just another pretty face, lost and forgotten by my stop. Looking back, I should have seen by the way you held yourself, by the way you took everything in, that you were significantly more interesting than I thought.  
It took us several stops before one of us uttered a word, it was you of course. With quick wit and endless energy, you were the one to talk first. Although it wasn’t to me.  
Much to my endless delight you turned to the poor woman next to you (still shouting at her husband) and started to converse with her in her native language. The shock on her face and your rather malice smile made me think at the time that you were telling her off for the noise she was creating. No matter what was said you managed to get her to huff and remain silent, if glaring, until her stop came.  
And I was transfixed.  
I had thought for certain you were a clueless tourist, but this wasn’t the first time you will prove me wrong.  
“Grazie… per il silenzio,” I tried, even if the language wasn’t my forte.  
You laughed, short and self-conscious, leaning forward as if conspiring.  
“You’re welcome and it’s okay, I speak English and promise not to tell anyone you’re American,” there was a glint of relief, perhaps at having someone to talk to?  
“Something against Americans?” my smirk I hoped made my tone stay light.  
“Of course not, no discrimination here. However, the locals may not take kindly to a tourist. They do tend to be quite unforgiving, even during their busiest time of the year. Whatever you do don’t order pizza at lunch time, or even worse a coca cola.”  
“I’ll bear that in mind,” I couldn’t help but smile, you always were able to make anyone smile. I reckon you could charm your way into the Oval office if you tried.  
Those little facts only added to my slight confusion at this point and confirmed that maybe I can’t read people as well as I thought. You talked like a native Italian, with all the right hand actions, and now you showed some knowledge I certainly hadn’t read in my guide book.  
Perhaps this train journey would be more interesting than I had thought.  
*  
“What are you here for? Business or pleasure?”  
“Well I’m hoping maybe both,” flirting came easily when I knew there was a brain behind your pretty face. You laughed, different to before, more confident and more carefree. Here was a spirt I couldn’t see in your eyes before. It was easy to imagine falling into bed with you, how those long legs would look wrapped around me and what that wicked mouth would be like open in pleasure.  
But in a falling apart train, where the smell of sweat was unbearable and St Peter’s station felt like hours away, it was easy to be lost in a fantasy.  
“I’m sure I could help with the pleasure part,” it was a close thing, but I just managed not to choke. “I think I know the city very well, I could be your guide?” well that was a touch disappointing.  
“I’m Peter.” I extended a hand, it felt right to offer something to the stranger that had saved me from complete boredom.  
“Stiles,” A hand slotted into mine, nearly distracting me from the ridiculous name. Nearly.  
“Stiles? Are you sure that’s a name?” a mocked glare was my response.  
“It’s a nickname.”  
“Am I not good enough for your real name.”  
“It’s more about an inability to pronounce my dyslexia headache of a name,” that made me laugh, surprising though that was. I couldn’t remember the last time I had properly laughed.  
Silence stretched briefly. You smiled contently, watching the countryside fly past as I tried my best to understand just how you had stepped into my trip.  
“What about you?”  
You blinked as if I had interrupted something important in your head  
“What about me what?”  
“Business, pleasure?”  
“Oh! Neither I guess. I’ve been living in Rome for some time and while it’s always a pleasure I doubt you would count coming home as the type of pleasure you mean,” no, definitely not. But it was good to know you had a place in the city, I filed it away for later. “As for business, I’m just coming back from visiting a friend out of the city and thought I’d make it back into the city before the lunch time rush. Not really a business venture.”  
“Are you studying at the university?” You laughed at that and I glared until you were quiet again.  
“Sorry. No, I did my years at college. Now I’m just passing through, living here for a while until I get bored,” You went silent then, just staring into me. You were waiting for me to say something, to ask more questions maybe.  
“Sounds like a beautiful escape,” I whispered, perhaps a touch wistfully, to a boy so obviously trying to fly away.  
Shocked splashed across you features and before I knew it you had slid further off your seat, staring. We were close. Too close based on some side eye form our fellow passengers but your eyes were only on me. If you decided you could move just a bit downwards and listen to my heart, or upwards and kiss me. You started at me right in the face, as though you liked what you saw and wished to study it.  
“I like the way you speak,” you whispered back and for a minuet we felt too intimate for carriage filled with people, but I wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else.  
“Why?”  
“You sound like someone who understands. Are you looking for an escape too?”  
“Maybe.” My smile made you blush, standing out even among the flush from the heat.  
“You’ve chosen the right city.”  
“Oh? Enlighten me?”  
“This is a city for lovers, it’s easy to forget whatever your running from.” Our eyes locked and it was hard to look away from you, I had your eyes memorised by now.  
“I hope you will show me.”  
“Maybe.” Your smile made me blush.  
*  
“Why Rome?” I asked long after you had moved away and broken whatever spell we had been under. The silence between us had felt so indifferent to the whispered conversation and I decided to break it, it was an odd feeling and I wondered why you were special enough to make me care.  
You looked like the question bothered you, upturned nose scrunching up. Maybe I had asked something a bit too hard to answer.  
“Rolling out the difficult questions, huh?”  
“I try my best.” Avoiding the question, I waved my hand to carry you on.  
Instead of looking annoyed or signing, giving some long and vague answer, you simply smiled.  
“I guess I’ll have to show you.”  
“Now that is an excellent idea.”  
*  
By the time the train pulled in I knew far too much and far too little about you, while being such a talker you were terrible at saying anything personal about yourself  
St Peter’s stood imposing over the surrounding flats as tourists and locals alike pushed to exit the train station. It felt impossible to keep a hold of my luggage, let alone be able to keep an eye on my new companion, by a hand round my elbow helped steer me towards a quieter part of the street and there you were of course.  
“I thought maybe we could share a taxi.” You left little room for argument, except-  
“, I was planning to walk, so I could get to know the city. Which way are you – “  
“- same as you.” You smiled and hiked your bag further up your shoulder, ready to go wherever I was going.


End file.
